Grampy Fernside's Arc

Chapter 22 of 22

The mended carriage stood ready by the door, the basket and bouquet tucked safe inside. But Grampy had drifted back to sleep in his chair, the morning slipping past him. Delphine crouched outside near a fern, coaxing a toad onto her palm. She looked up when a shape crossed the meadow. Grans was already awake, tying her apron, stepping onto the path toward the pavilion. Beside her fluttered a brown mouse fairy with blue wings—Hazel, the sharp-eyed friend who noticed everything in the forest. The two were walking together, early. Grampy would never beat them there. Delphine set the toad down and slipped through the back door. She shook Grampy's shoulder. "Wake up. Grans is already leaving. Hazel's with her." Grampy jerked upright. He looked at the window, then the carriage, then his bare feet. "They can't reach the pavilion first," he said. "The bouquet has to be waiting when she arrives. That's the whole surprise." He gripped his cane and stood, but his mind moved faster than his legs. His eyes landed on the photo album on the tea table—the one with their young wedding faces on the cover, forty years of gardens and friends pressed inside. He held it out to Delphine. "Run ahead. Put this in the hollow stump along their path. The mossy one, with the sitting nook. Grans can't walk past a thing like this. She'll stop. She'll show Hazel every page." Delphine took the album in both arms. "How long do you need?" "Long enough to dress and push the carriage across." "Then she'll be reading a while," Delphine said. She was already at the door. "Don't fall asleep again." She ran. Grampy pulled his best outfit from the hook—the buttercup-yellow shirt with green plaid, the dove-brown shorts. He dressed faster than he had in weeks. He bent to button the cuffs and waited for the familiar catch in his spine. It did not come. He straightened. He bent again, lower this time, testing. His back held. No stab, no ache. He set the cane against the wall and stood on his own two feet, steady. Forty years of gardening and one hard week of pain, and this morning it had quietly let go. He pushed the carriage into the sunlight and started across the meadow. Far ahead, near the mossy stump, he saw two small figures stop. Grans had found the album. Hazel perched on the rim beside her. Grans was turning pages, her hand pressed to her chest. Grampy smiled and kept walking. The pavilion waited beyond them. The stall had worked. He had the time he needed, and for the first time in days, he had his own strong back to carry him there.